Recoveries
by Mirrordance
Summary: After Legolas' first life-threatening injury, Thranduil finds it hard to allow him back to the field. The only thing harder than releasing Legolas to his duties? Admitting a father's fears. In the meantime, the Prince is anxious to serve and increasingly angry, while the whole Kingdom walks on eggshells around the two feuding royals.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Recoveries

 **Summary:** After Legolas' first life-threatening injury, Thranduil finds it hard to allow him back to the field. The only thing harder than releasing Legolas to his duties? Admitting a father's fears. In the meantime, the Prince is anxious to serve and increasingly angry, while the whole Kingdom walks on eggshells around the two feuding royals.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, favorited, discussed, recommended, and most importantly, reviewed my last fic, "Walking Wounded" and the mini-fic it included, "The Fetcher." You guys are really very, very inspiring._

 _Here's another take on the complex father-son relationship between Thranduil and Legolas that I hope you will enjoy. You know every time I post something on here I think it's the last one and yet here I am again... it's really a credit to the kindness and insight of this community that people are able to stay inspired and engaged, even on and off, for such a long time :)_

 _Thanks again to everyone and as usual, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. This is a two-part fic already completed, just sort of marinading and settling for me to be able to feel out if there is anything more I want to do with it. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!_

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1

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Thranduil could have started eating –surely he was not expected to wait on anyone - but he wants to make a point. He wants his errant son to see the King seated with his plate empty and his food cold and untouched. He wants the younger elf to see his displeasure, and to understand that tardiness is unacceptable.

The Prince all but storms into the formal dining room, still clad in soiled warrior's clothes. He gives his father a quick bow, and takes his proper place on Thranduil's right rand.

"I apologize for my lateness, _adar_ ," Legolas says gravely. He notices, as he was meant to, the King's untouched food and cutlery and he grimaces. "I sincerely hope the King was not kept waiting too long."

Thranduil sighs melodramatically, "I require your presence for one meal in a day, Legolas, just one while you are here. It escapes me how I can find the means to be here promptly in spite of all the business of this Kingdom, and yet you cannot."

"I have no excuses to give," Legolas says, "only apologies to issue. I'd lost track of time. It is all this idleness, I think."

There is an edge to his son's tone that Thranduil does not miss, but feels no inclination to address. He receives it with a quirk of his brow – a warning for the other not to take this any further – but otherwise lets it go.

Thranduil motions for attendants hiding in the shadows of the vast room, and the dinner service begins. The King is served first, before the attendants move to the Prince's side.

The first attendant missteps somewhere by Legolas' elbow, but recovers her footing quickly. The soup inside the bowl she carries sloshes dangerously but does not spill.

"I ah," Legolas hesitates, "I would be a bit more careful coming through around here..."

The second attendant is serving wine, a fine variety of Dor-winion from the King's own reserves. So focused is he on this task that when he too slips, he is unable to do anything else other than hold onto the precious decanter. He lands stunned, soundly on his rump, arms still wrapped protectively about the container of wine.

"What madness has befallen everyone here?" the King demanded, rising up from his seat. His eyes are aflame and dangerous.

Legolas rises too, and lifts a placating hand at his father while using the other to help the nervous, sputtering attendant back to his feet.

"I'm afraid I am the cause of all this ruckus," Legolas says to the King. To the attendants, he lowers his head and places a hand to his heart. "I sincerely apologize."

"What in all of Arda are you talking about?" Thranduil asks, and he notices for the first time that Legolas' warrior's garb is not merely soiled but wet. He tilts to get a better view of his son, and finds Legolas' boots all but soaking the dining hall's polished floors. His brows shoot up as he declares, "Your sodden shoes are a veritable menace!"

"The situation will be resolved promptly, _aran-nin_ ," one of the servants says meekly, and the both of them scurry away. They've barely left the room when more attendants come in with mops and brooms.

"What have you been up to?" Thranduil asks Legolas, who looks ready to jump in and help clean up the mess he's made but is instead forced to comply with his father's impatient motions for him to stand down. The two royals reclaim their seats.

"I've been rowing," Legolas answers.

"Rowing," Thranduil repeats dispassionately, not quite believing his ears. His tone escalates gradually. "You've been rowing? And what possible new flight of fancy has you possessed with this activity?"

Legolas juts out his jaw in subtle defiance. "It strengthens the same muscles called upon by an archer. I am fighting to return to proper fitness, _adar_ , so that I may again be of service as a warrior."

Thranduil's eyes narrow in annoyance. "If it must be done, Legolas, do try and save us all some grief and dry up before you endanger anyone else."

The Prince nods in obedience but bites his lip in thought. Thranduil knows what will follow, and it prompts him to reach for a goblet of wine.

"Perhaps I would be less of a hindrance to everyone if I am allowed to return to active duty," the younger elf says quietly, and cautiously. They've had this conversation before.

"I've seen you at the ranges," Thranduil snaps. "You are not what you were. Hence, you clearly remain unwell. I cannot allow it."

"But, _adar_ -" Legolas protests.

"Enough," Thranduil says, with finality. "I refuse to allow your mediocrity back into the ranks. You can very well get someone killed by your stubbornness. When you are back to fighting form, you may return. Not sooner. This is final. This is your King's command."

Legolas' chest heaves with his repressed arguments, but he bites his tongue. His eyes are resentful too, but Thranduil can live with that. What he cannot live with, at least not yet, is sending his son back out so soon after that last debacle.

"I do not want to speak of this matter again," Thranduil tells him. "You will be fit to return to duty when I deem it so."

# # #

 _Brenion, his war minister and a friend of long-standing, was the one tasked with the unenviable job of telling the ill-tempered King that his son was dying._

 _He spoke plainly and with little preamble – the King had been wrenched from a diplomatic exchange with elves of high-standing, and was already much displeased by the intrusion._

 _"_ _We've received word that a patrol returns with heavy casualties,_ aran-nin _," Brenion opens. "But the ride is long with some of our soldiers in a grievous state. They risk harm by moving faster. A party of our best healers are preparing to depart with the intention of intercepting them for more immediate treatment. It is encouraged that the King join them."_

 _It's an unconventional request to make of the King, and Thranduil's piercing, perceptive eyes search Brenion's apprehensive ones._

 _"_ _My Lord Legolas is amongst those most stricken," he says roughly. "The road is still unsafe and I, as your general, would advise against having both you and your heir at risk outside the stronghold at this time. But as your friend... if you should want to see your son alive, if there are words that need to be said, you must meet them."_

 _At the word 'Legolas' Thranduil was already moving, and Brenion perforce trailed after him as he spoke, along with the King's ever-present Royal Guard._

 _"_ _As grave as that?" Thranduil asked, tightly._

 _"_ _He was on covering fire," Brenion stated with dismay, "Last to leave his post, you know how he is. The position had taken heavy fire to suppress him, but his efforts were able to drive the enemy into retreat." The councilman swallowed thickly before continuing, "He'd taken four arrows, mellon-nin. I am sorry."_

 _"_ _Speak to me again as if he were already dead," Thranduil said darkly, "and you will never again call me your friend."_

 _Brenion lowered his head and nodded, but he did not apologize for what was said. True friends gave honesty, and Thranduil had a right to know what was at stake and what he should expect to find when he sees his son._

 _"_ _Two shots to the bow arm," Brenion said, as expressionlessly and objectively as he could manage, "These were through and through. He'd taken these early on and had to break them up and tear them off so as not to compromise his aim. There could be lasting damage, but they are not life-threatening. The shots of greater concern lie on his right leg and one on the side of his chest."_

 _"_ _Poison?" Thranduil asked as they walked, briskly to the armory and stables. "Bleeding?"_

 _"_ _The arrow on the leg broke bone," Brenion replied, "and the marrow is poison in his blood. The shaft was removed neatly and the injury tended, but he is fevered, confused and in much pain. The wound on his chest, on the other hand, is immobilized but for the most part untreated. The arrowhead broke off and is stuck on rib bone. Its removal requires a surgery the patrol's field healer fears could end him, in his current state. They await the approval of the King to proceed, and the more experienced surgeons of the stronghold to do the more delicate work. I-" he stopped short of saying 'I'm sorry' again. "That is all that they say of him in the report. That, and for us to make haste. He hasn't much time."_

 _Thranduil strode forward hungrily, his steps eating away at the distance between him and his ailing son. Even the younger, sprightlier elves of his personal the Royal Guard had to double their pace to keep up with him._

 _"_ _He will wait for me," Thranduil told Brenion quietly, lethally, and with unquestionable certainty. "He will wait for me and when I arrive, I will not let him go."_

# # #

Thranduil finishes his work early, and leaves the King's halls in search of his son. Legolas is almost certain to be outside, and his guess is quickly rewarded by the sound of the Prince's name said over and over, cheered by a cadre of elflings. The sounds take him and his trailing Royal Guard to the banks of the river.

He watches them at an incline, from behind the cover of trees. His son is soaked through again, but in contrast to the previous night's chagrin marring his face, Legolas instead sports a wide smile as he regards the young ones gathered about the rowboat he had apparently just docked. He has two other elves with him, and they have two barrels of freshly-caught fish on them.

Thranduil rolls his eyes up to the heavens in consternation, before exhaling long and low. He feels only a slight surprise when Legolas' ears catch the subtle sound, even from a distance, and his golden head turns swiftly in his father's direction. From the spaces between tree branches and their verdant leaves, blue gazes meet, finding each other instantly.

The light in Legolas' eyes fade by a sliver, but Thranduil feels its dimming acutely. The Prince bows slightly and his noisy, merry companions, finally noticing the nearby presence of their King, follow more formally and elaborately.

Thranduil steps from the shadows and examines the day's catch. His son - _the warrior Prince_ 's - catch. A part of Thranduil is displeased at the impropriety, another unsure. It is, he finds, almost comical that one of the most gifted warriors of the Realm is reduced to this. Or, if one were to think of things more positively, it is almost comical that one of the most gifted warriors of the Realm is also a handy fisherman.

"I've made productive use of my training here," Legolas says abruptly, always quick to catch even the minutest signs of the King's ire. "They needed a boatman and I needed the additional weight to build strength. And now our stores are well-filled."

"Lego-" one of the elves said, before spotting Thranduil's narrowed eyes and catching himself, "that is to say, the Prince Legolas, is a most impressive rower. There were such good spots upriver we've not fished in before for the currents, sire. We are most grateful for his help."

Thranduil is unsure what to say, and Legolas takes up his pacifier's role again. "I believe it is best that these are brought to the kitchens in time for the evening meal. Be off now, and leave _aran-nin_ to his more pertinent business."

The servants take leave of the Elvenking and the Prince with murmurs and bows, and Thranduil finds it in himself to praise their work.

"Thank you for your diligent service," he tells them, and they all leave lighter of heart and with smiles upon their faces.

"I hope the King's more pertinent business does not include scolding me," Legolas teases, as soon as the other elves are out of earshot.

Thranduil sighs. "A temptation I choose to forego, _ion-nin_ , at least for now. Is this what you have been up to all day?"

"Hardly." The younger elf chuckles as he walks a few steps down from where he docked his rowboat. An attendant awaits him, bearing dry clothes and a fresh pair of boots. "In accordance with your instructions, I've gone through the finer points of that deal you mean to enact with the Master of Laketown," Legolas shares as he sits on the ground and removes his boots, "I've spotted a few contentious points, and have made my suggestions with the trade minister. He was very accommodating."

"Really." Thranduil's brow quirks, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He is both slightly offended and very curious as to which points the _princeling_ would have seen fit to correct in a document he himself had already reviewed.

"The Master is astute in business," Legolas says as he unclasps his belt and loosens the laces of his tunic, "but he is also a populist politician. I think there are some measures we can push for that may not be the most financially sound for him, but desired by his people. If we take advantage of that, we can-"

The rest of what he says is lost on Thranduil, when he pulls his wet tunic off from over his head, and his undershirts ride up with the heavy fabric, exposing still healing skin underneath. It is stretched pale and taut against bones too prominent from his recent immobility and loss of weight, and Thranduil realizes now the reason for Legolas' ardent efforts at regaining some bulk. The removal of the tunic also exposes that long surgical scar on Legolas' side, which is deceptively straight and neat except Thranduil was only too well-aware of the near-fatal damage it hid beneath.

The King looks away from his son, almost sick with the memory of it all. "Well I am pleased you are able to apply yourself," he says curtly, not caring that it cut off more of what the Prince was saying. "Are you quite finished?"

He turns to look back at Legolas, whose words die before slightly parted lips. The lighthearted confidence and intellectual curiosity of his previous statements vanish, along with the light in his eyes. Thranduil's heart aches regretfully, the sensation dull and distant. He almost corrects himself – _Are you quite finished undressing in the wild and exposing your wounds_? he had meant, rather than to silence him – but it was not in the King's repertoire. The hard years have chiseled it off, like a master carver forms a stone.

Legolas silently passes the damp tunic along to his valet, and to Thranduil's eternal relief, the Prince keeps on his still-dry breeches and undershirts. He pulls the thin, dislodged fabric down self-consciously over his chest and waist, and dries his arms and the tips of his hair with a proffered towel.

The silence is oppressive, Thranduil finds. He also realizes that it is not mere submission on his son's part, but also punishment. Legolas is punishing him. His generally amicable, placatory son is very, _very_ displeased at having been cut off.

Thranduil lets the heavy quiet settle over their heads like a storm cloud. Legolas is content to keep his mouth shut and Thranduil lets him. It is the elves around them that are anxious; the Royal Guards shift uneasily. The King can hear the fabric of their clothes brush in their movements.

Legolas takes his time shrugging on a fresh tunic and a pair of boots, not looking at his father or anyone else. He tugs on his belt too with his dexterous fingers working the leather, all in that cloud of quiet. The sound of river rushing in the near distance seems suddenly loud, even the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze. The trees are almost nudging them to speak.

" _Hannon-le_ ," Legolas tells his attendant quietly when he finishes and the valet gathers and folds the soiled clothes. Thranduil almost barks out a laugh – his son can be oh so painfully polite. If there was one thing to break that defiant silence of his, then it was certainly to thank a servant for doing his job.

With the quiet broken and no more articles of clothing to occupy himself with, Legolas finally turns to his father. His eyes are ice cold. "I am expected at the archery ranges," he says. "Perhaps you should come, and see for yourself how I've progressed."

It is Thranduil's turn to fold. "I conducted my affairs early, and it is seldom ever so. Perhaps I can instead, prevail upon you to-" _never go back to the ranges and never get well enough that I should send you back out into the fray_ , he wanted to say, "-to indulge your father and join him in some Dar-winion."

Legolas is torn between his lingering annoyance, his fervent need to please his seldom-imploring father, his responsibilities for the appointment he had made with the master archer, and his own desire to prove his fitness for duty. Responsibility wins out.

"Nothing would please me more _adar_ ," he says so very earnestly, all traces of his displeasure upon his father dissipated as it always did, "But it is not merely the master archer that awaits me. He is putting my knowledge to good use on behalf of the novices. Our senior archers are dispatched away from the stronghold and he says the young ones can benefit from my experience."

Thranduil sets his jaws in displeasure. "Well it is good to see you being useful in your time here."

"Will the King come to watch?" Legolas asks, eyes all but begging, even if he tries to disguise it by steeling his features.

"Apparently I've nothing better to do," Thranduil says wryly, motioning for Legolas to move forward. It warms him when his son gives him a boyish, undisguised grin in sheer, earnest pleasure.

 _He is so very young_ , the King reflects, _and that heart of his is always worn on the sleeve_.

# # #

 _Thranduil, mounted atop the Kingdom's fastest and most tempestuous steed, charged across the forest at breakneck speed. Beneath him was a truly powerful beast, a young stallion freshly acquired and with much energy – it was waiting for the King outside the stables almost frothing at the bit and pounding angrily at the ground, impatient for movement. He was not Thranduil's usual mount, but he shared the King's eagerness for movement and was thus commandeered._

 _The king's personal guard struggled to keep up behind him, and had with them a spare horse on a lead, bareback as a reserve for when the stallion tired. But it brought Thranduil to the retreating patrol's temporary encampment in record time and still hungry for ground. He reared back and neighed in displeasure at having to be stopped._

Legolas will adore you _, Thranduil thought, as he dismounted and tossed the reins to a groom_. When he is better, you shall be his gift.

 _He was immediately met by a harried field healer, and the commander of the patrol._

 _"_ _The surgeons,_ aran-nin _?" asked the healer who, like others of his profession deployed on the fields of battle, was a young soldier with considerable training in the medical arts but had not the experience and knowledge for severe trauma that his seniors stationed in the stronghold had._

 _The commander threw a warning look at the young soldier and bowed at Thranduil first before speaking. "Legolas is alive,_ aran-nin _, but in desperate need of aid we are ill-equipped to give. We tried to get him back to the stronghold, but we've made camp here as he can be moved no further."_

 _"_ _The surgeons are close behind me," Thranduil said in a careful, studied tone. "Take me to him now."_

 _The commander led the way, and Thranduil followed with the anxious healer nipping at his heels. The three elves passed by weary soldiers in various states of injury and trudging, determined duty. They were somber as they bowed before their King, and Thranduil imperviously ignored the sadness and pity in their eyes as he moved forward toward the officer's tent where his son lay in is agonies._

 _The tent was sparse but functional, warm and well-lit. It was clearly hastily erected, a concession to the Prince's deteriorating health. Legolas was the only occupant, lying flat on a wooden pallet softened by beddings. His undershirts have been removed, leaving him barebacked save for the elaborate, clean white bandages wrapped around almost the entirety of his left arm, and binding it against his chest to immobilize him. He was blanketed to the waist for warmth, but beneath the thick cloth Thranduil can see a bulky right leg, splinted and also bandaged._

 _His son was both worse and better than he had come to expect, when he pondered tortuously about how he would find Legolas along the length of his journey here. Worse because it was always jarring to see one's child ailing. But better too because he'd been thinking of arrows and blood and broken bones. He wasn't expecting neatness and quiet. But stillness was in actuality worse, wasn't it? He rather would have found Legolas kicking and screaming and fighting to get up. At least he was awake and, surprisingly, lucid._

 _Legolas' blue eyes were cloudy but present, and he turned his head slowly to look upon the new arrivals. They widened in surprise, and as he shifted in an effort to appear more alert before the King, his pale face collapsed – crumbled – contorted in naked torment. He looked for a long moment devoid of all sense and self, lost in his agonies._

 _His expression froze Thranduil in his tracks, but the young healer pushed past the King and shot forward to keep the Prince from moving._

 _"_ _Legolas," he said soothingly, pressing gentle but insistent palms to the few spots on the archer's chest free of injury. "You've been told of the consequences of exerting yourself." Remembering Thranduil's presence, he belatedly added the honorary, "_ Hir-nin."

 _The ailing elf's eyes were shut tight, and his whole body was rigid in chorus. He nodded in understanding and laid his head back down. He was gray-faced and sweat-slick when he settled, and breathing hard through clenched teeth. Tremors coursed through his body and he turned his face away from all of them and allowed himself a low, quiet moan. The sound was nevertheless loud in the small, silent room. His anguish filled every inch of empty space._

 _The spunky healer urgently waved his King over to come closer, and Thranduil was stunned enough to follow as he was bidden. He knelt beside his son's pallet and reached tentatively for his golden head. He could feel a radiant heat from Legolas even before he touched hair and skin._

 _"_ _I told them not to send for the King," Legolas said, voice ragged. He was still turned away from everyone as he fought to compose himself. "You shouldn't have come. The ways are still perilous."_

 _"_ _I am exactly where I must be, Legolas," Thranduil said, and he barely kept his voice from shaking._

 _Legolas shook his head vigorously. "No. Please, I beg you. You must go. It is not safe. It is not nearly safe enough for the King-"_

 _"_ _Peace,_ Hir-nin _," a familiar voice broke into his increasingly agitated demands, from the edges of the tent by the entrance. It is Tauriel, a Silvan female Captain of some renown, just arrived from where she was recalled to relieve Legolas' patrol._

 _Legolas turned to face them then, and settled a searching gaze upon her face. She stepped forward boldly._

 _"_ _I swear on my life that nothing will harm you or the King while you are here," she said vehemently, "Nothing will disturb you. There is nothing to worry about."_

 _Her guarantee for whatever reason eased the injured elf and he asked, more calmly, "The perimeter?"_

 _"_ _Well secured," she confirmed with absolute certainty. "And all the weary and injured able to travel are preparing – with sizeable escort - to continue on to the safety of the stronghold." He opened his mouth to inquire of something else, but she beat him to it. "The enemy that ambushed your post retreated but as we speak are being hunted by a fresh patrol. I also come here with a new set of guards for the party that remains, and an extra contingent by virtue of the presence of the King."_

 _Legolas licked his dry lips and nodded in contentment. "Thank you, Captain."_

 _Thranduil looked at her gratefully too. She understood, as neither he nor the young healer beside him had, that the soldier in Legolas could find no rest until his position was secure and his duty upon the King discharged._

 _"_ _May I serve the King in any other way?" she asked._

 _"_ _You may return to your duties, Tauriel," the King replied._

 _"_ _Thank you,_ aran-nin _." She turned as if to leave, but paused in hesitation before her exit._

 _"_ _If I may say so," she said softly, "I speak for the whole company when I express our gratitude for Lego-" she quickly corrected herself, "for my lord's courage and generosity. Everyone knows what he has done on their behalf, and all that he risked. We are all most eager to see him restored to good health, and would be honored to fight beside him once more, as soon as he is able."_

 _Her voice was steady, but too much so. She left immediately after speaking, afraid of her own sadness and fears. After all – everyone knew why Thranduil had come – it was because his son was fading._

They all think they know _, Thranduil decided,_ But they are all wrong. I am not here to say goodbye. I am here to make him stay.

# # #

Thranduil lets Legolas jog into the training field but he keeps some distance away, choosing to stay where he finds his old friend and war minister Brenion watching the novice archers. It is no surprise to find him here; the decorated warrior took delight in checking the progress of the Realm's soldiers when he was not in service with the King's close counsel.

" _Aran-nin_ ," he greets Thranduil happily, "I confess I am here because I was told to expect an exhibition by your eagle-eyed son. I've missed his showmanship. It is a delight to also find you here."

"He told me nothing of an exhibition," Thranduil huffed, "he is still on the mend, let it not be forgotten."

"And yet still better than most!" Brenion declares, his enthusiasm for warring skills not at all dampened by Thranduil's sour mood.

They watch quietly as the master issues instructions to the novices, and the young elves take their positions in a long line. Legolas walks among them, giving corrections and pointers, and occasionally giving an approving nod.

"With both the King and the Prince here," Brenion says with a mad gleam in his eye, "I very much look forward to seeing not a few of these hungry young bucks show off."

The novices release, and the master archer and Legolas squint their eyes in examination of the distant targets before discussing amongst themselves. They call upon the three best performers, who line up together and prepare for another volley, while stewards move the targets back by a few more paces. The three elflings look serious and eager to impress. The novices who were not selected do as young ones do, and goad and laugh at them.

The three archers release, and Legolas and their teacher declare a winner, who looks both proud and embarrassed of the achievement. He glances shyly in the King's direction, and Thranduil is endeared enough – _because that expression is oh so very familiar, is it not?_ – to favor him with an elaborate bow in salute of his victory. The _penneth_ beams and howls triumphantly at his peers.

As is expected, the novices demand a performance of Legolas, who even as a relatively young soldier has already acquired a reputation in battle and particularly, for his skills in archery. He waves them down half-heartedly, and is already reaching for a bow and a filled quiver, handed to him by the grinning master archer.

"That stance is perfection," Brenion says, matter-of-factly from beside Thranduil. "The balance, his stillness and self-possession. There is such control, _mellon-nin_. You could have had a surgeon with those sharp eyes and steady hands!"

Thranduil smiles at him thinly, and the temptation of assigning his son to the wards dances on the edges of his imagination before he lets it slip in favor of focusing on his son. He is torn between wishing Legolas well – for the adoration of his people and so that Thranduil can finally convince himself that his son is truly healthy again – and wishing for Legolas' failure, if only so that he can keep him safe nearby for a little while longer.

Legolas releases three arrows in quick succession, not moving his planted feet and barely even adjusting his posture. He hits the bull's eye in each of the three novices' target boards, to the delight of his enthralled audience.

"Farther!" they yell, and Legolas laughingly accommodates them. The stewards move the targets back as he readies another set of shots.

Thranduil is as captivated as the others, when Legolas not only hits the targets again but splits all three arrows already at the center. The novices howl in hungry delight.

"Aw, he can do better than that!" Brenion yells out, unable to help himself. Legolas looks in their direction and smiles shyly at his father, looking not at all unlike the young elf who had sought Thranduil's approval earlier.

Thranduil gives him a cautious nod, and Legolas orders the targets moved back again. For reasons he could not completely grasp, however, Thranduil is feeling increasingly displeased by his son's display. He stalks forward to come closer to the archers, and Brenion happily and obliviously trails after him.

Just as before, Legolas hits the targets right at the center, nicking the arrows already crowding there. Brenion and the novices are practically in rapture – Thranduil, not quite. Especially not when Legolas absently rubs at the side of his healing injury. It could have been a simple scratch, a readjustment of his tunic, anything at all other than pain or strain. But it matters not to Thranduil, for the reminder of it is enough to bring him to inexplicable, burning, almost vindictive anger.

"Farther," the King demands in a clipped tone. Brenion, Legolas and the master archer catches it, even if the cheering novices do not. The stewards do immediately as commanded, and Legolas watches his father's face uncertainly.

"Well, archer," Thranduil tells him, "Show your wares and shoot."

With far less enthusiasm but just as much accuracy, Legolas does as he is told. The oblivious young elves around them are still happy.

"Farther," Thranduil says again, and again the stewards accommodate and move the targets back. Legolas is less eager to follow the unworded command, but he does aim and shoot again with much success.

"A most excellent display!" the master archer declares, hoping to diffuse the tension. He starts to applaud, and the novices follow suit. But they too, begin to sense the unease amongst the older warriors.

"Farther!" Thranduil barks out, and Legolas turns to him with an uncertain, placating smile.

" _Aran-nin_ ," he says gently, "Perhaps you expect too much of this humble servant."

"Shoot," Thranduil instructs, and Legolas looks at him with barely veiled hurt and confusion, but follows. The result of this aim is less accurate than others, but within the center of the target nonetheless.

"You've done farther than that with a moving target, Legolas," Thranduil tells him coldly, before commanding – "Farther!"

Brenion steps closer to the King, but Thranduil gives his old friend a pointed look in warning – _do not interfere_. He juts his jaw out in disagreement but manages to hold his tongue.

Legolas takes a deep breath and takes aim again. It is still true, but for reasons all their own, father and son are increasingly angry at each other with every shot fired and each target expertly met.

"Again!"

When Thranduil commands more, Legolas decides he has had enough. He shoots arrows by the feet of the stewards - who are really rather distant by now - to keep them from moving in compliance with the King's orders. In quick succession, he also empties out his quiver and takes aim at the targets. He turns to look at his father heatedly and pointedly before releasing, so sure is he that they would make the mark even with half his attention.

Thranduil's brow quirks at his son's daring. The elves around them know for certain now that it is high time to make themselves scarce.

"All right get those shafts back," the master archer instructs the novices, "and retrieve those stewards too – if you can find them!"

"They look about a day's walk from here," Brenion jokes, and the elves around the steaming father and son laugh nervously but appreciatively.

The young ones and their teacher disperse, and Legolas makes his exit wordlessly. Thranduil and Brenion watch him go, and he trudges off proudly without looking back. He is rubbing at his healing leg.

"You may have damaged him," Brenion says lightly, in some vain hope that levity can allow him to speak as he knows he needs to.

"It only goes to show he is not yet well," Thranduil says with grim satisfaction. "This should have been nothing to him."

"Would you permit me to speak freely?"

Thranduil bristles at what he foresees would be an old friend's impertinence, but he knows it is as much of a challenge as asking for real permission.

"I've never been able to stop you before," he says, wryly. "So, speak."

"I saw him ailing same as you," Brenion says passionately. "You brought him home more dead than alive, we all knew it. It is a miracle he is alive, and it was a long road indeed that has him finally on his feet again. One cannot come from that brink and return perfectly right away – if one even does at all. You cannot expect him to be the same."

"If he is not his old self," Thranduil points out with more than a pinch of sarcasm, "then he is not recovered is he? What with recovery being the operative word, and the reclamation of one's old strengths being its very definition."

"But you are being blind if you cannot see that even thus diminished," Brenion argues, "and I use that term loosely, for it is unjust to describe a warrior of your son's quality this way – he is still better than most. If not all, I might even venture to say."

"If he is not himself," Thranduil insists, "he is not recovered."

"But he is recovered _enough_ ," Brenion counters. "Restore him to duty, _mellon-nin_. Even if lightly."

"Oh have you not heard?" Thranduil asks, "he is already well-used."

Brenion scoffs. "I have heard about your bowman becoming the intrepid boatman. And our finance minister is revising our trade agreements upon Legolas' suggestions even as we speak. But you and that elfling will turn this kingdom on its head if he does not return to where he truly belongs."

"He belongs where I put him!"

"In the meantime he is killing himself trying to be better because he thinks you find him mediocre."

It is Thranduil's turn to scoff. "Were you not just here with me for that arrogant display? Legolas knows how good he is no matter what I say. The best always do."

"And yet of all the best," Brenion says wryly, "only one of them is Thranduil's son, subject to Thranduil's unhealthy means of communication."

The Elvenking hisses at him.

"He cannot read your mind, _mellon-nin_ ," Brenion says in a more conciliatory manner. "He thinks you find him lacking. He thinks you find him unfit. You must fix this, before it festers."

Thranduil is tempted to be angry, but the sadness in his heart is closer, more to the surface. He thinks of Legolas' earnest smile, the shy pride he has when Thranduil watches him work, and that inexplicable wellspring of hope. He sighs.

"It won't fester. That is not his way."

"That does not absolve you of speaking to him with what he needs to hear," Brenion points out.

"And what should I say?"

Brenion shrugs. "The truth. That he may be fit and ready to return to duty, but you are not."

Thranduil does not deny it. Brenion is a friend of too long a standing not to be able to tell truth from lie, even if he feels any inclination to make an effort of hiding which, incidentally, he does not.

"Am I not entitled to this?" Thranduil asks instead, and pounds at his chest over his heart with a clenched fist. The dull thud makes Brenion wince. "Am I not entitled? I never ask anything of this Realm, never."

Brenion knows what he means. The King asks everyone for everything, but Thranduil the father gives much. Too much.

"All I want is him, safe here with me for just a little while longer."

"You are entitled," Brenion says gently. "Oh the gods know how much. But Legolas does not know that. He does not have a father's eyes. He will not understand until you tell him. You keep him here not for his weakness, but for your love."

 _Love_.

Thranduil winces at the word, remembering the precise last time he's heard it said before this one.

# # #

 _The young healer left Thranduil and Legolas alone to meet with the newly-arrived surgeons and discuss with them plans for the Prince's treatment and care. In his absence, Thranduil suddenly felt irrationally afraid, as if he were unqualified to look after his own son and that things would go wrong with just him there. He even hesitated with the hand he had resting upon Legolas' head. Was it too heavy? Was it intrusive? His son looked too brittle to handle even this._

 _Legolas' open-mouthed breathing stuttered and rattled, and his chest rose and fell harshly with every small, shallow, embattled breath harder than the one that preceded it. His skin had become so pale that it had taken on a thin kind of translucence, except for where his veins were dark and bulging at the sides of his neck, and at clusters of small red spots crawling on whatever Thrqanduil could see of his chest and arms. Fine tremors coursed through his body, and tiny pearls of sweat beaded on his forehead and over his darkening lips. He was a mass of small but mounting tortures, all vying for attention._

 _"_ _The surgeons are here,_ ion-nin _," Thranduil assured him, "you will find relief shortly."_

 _Legolas' eyes are open but unseeing, so consumed was he by his pains. But he was still aware, for he gave a short jerk of his head as acknowledgement._

 _They fell into silence Thranduil did not know what to do with._

 _It was so very, very quiet._

 _It reminded him – painfully – of how much he relied on official matters in speaking with Legolas, and of how much of the conversational burden he had passed onto the son now too ill to care to fill an expanding void._

 _The King found comfort in stroking Legolas' smooth, golden hair, and even twined and twirled some strands around his fingers. He wasn't sure if the younger elf even noticed, much less derived similar comfort in the gesture, until Legolas sighed contentedly and seemed to relax._

 _"_ _I'd rather," Legolas whispered, and Thranduil lowered his head to hear him. They've not stood this close together in ages. "I'd rather you didn't see any of this, but I thank you for being with me."_

 _It sounded like a goodbye, and Thranduil's fingers jerked spasmodically on his son's hair, tugging at it a little. He forced himself to loosen up and tried to find something to say about that, but Legolas took up the cudgels for him again, one more time._

 _"_ _Thank you for your love,_ adar _."_

 _Thranduil's breath caught, and his eyes watered. It was not what he expected to hear. It might not be what he deserved to hear. But it was exactly what he needed. He needed to hear, not that he was loved – by the gods, how could he not know? His son had always worn that heart on his sleeve, and had never made Thranduil feel any different. But for Legolas to tell his father he knew he was loved in return, even if it almost always went unsaid...Thranduil's father's heart could have burst in relief._

He knows, he knows, he knows...

 _Thranduil kept his left hand on Legolas' head and reached for his unbound one with the other, right hand upon right hand. They seldom ever touched nowadays, but with impossible longing they clung to each other, and Thranduil felt his hesitations melting away. He relished in the moment, no longer needing words._

"Aran-nin _." Maenor, the most senior healer brought in from the stronghold, was standing by the entrance of the tent and calling for Thranduil's attention. "If I might have a word."_

 _Thranduil squeezed Legolas' hand one more time and was about to let go, but in defiance of his weakness, Legolas not only kept his grip, but pulled his father in closer and tighter. His hold was unyielding. Thranduil looked down at him in surprise._

 _"_ _I will only be away a moment," he told Legolas gently._

 _"_ _What he has to say of me," Legolas said raggedly, with desperate eyes, "He must say before me, father. I've earned that right."_

 _Maenor heard and he looked uneasy, but Legolas was right. It was only just, and Thranduil could hardly stand to deny him anything with his eyes that hungry anyway._

 _"_ _Whatever you have to say," Thranduil commanded the healer, "you may say here."_

 _Maenor swallowed thickly in discomfort, but stepped forward and spoke as plainly as he could._

 _"_ _We have discussed treatment options for_ hir-nin _Legolas," he said, taking care to keep his face earnest but objective, "and we require your wise counsel on how to proceed." He looked at Thranduil pointedly, that the King may understand the gravity of what he had to say, and to ask, wordlessly, if he really did want the words said before Legolas. Thranduil prodded him to continue with a nod._

 _"_ _We are confident in the field healer's treatment of the arrow wounds to the arm and leg," he reported, "There is naught else to be done but keep them clean and manage any discomfort they may present. But as you know, the wound to the broken leg has leaked marrow to the blood and the body is not tolerating it well. Here there is naught else to be done too, but keep the fever low, ease the Prince's breathing where we can, and keep him comfortable. Unfortunately..."_

 _He takes a deep breath and looks at Thranduil for direction again._

 _"_ _Continue," the King commands impatiently._

 _"_ _This is serious enough on its own, without the last wound's complex retrieval still upon us," Maenor said. "The arrowhead broke off and is lodged on a rib bone. The surgery has waited long enough and must be done promptly. It will involve cutting the wound wider so that we may find its precise location and well, have some purchase by which we can yank it free, essentially. The procedure will be extremely painful on your strongest day, my lord, even with the best herbs at our disposal. But today..._

 _"_ _Today you can have none of that," Maenor continued gravely, "Your weakened body will assuredly fail with any medicine designed to further dull your senses, depress your breathing, and slow your heart. I can only give you something mild, the consequence for which is pain I cannot imagine or describe."_

 _The healer took a deep breath to steel himself. A misstep here and he could very well have the King's sword pressed against his throat._

 _"_ _The pain I speak of is likely to kill you in your current state," he said quietly, and with much compassion. "I am so very heartily sorry."_

 _Thranduil could feel his entire body going taut, and he felt the need to spring up and lash out. But Legolas' hand was still in his, over-warm but very much alive and present and insistent that he stay exactly where he was._

 _"_ _Alternatively," Maenor said meekly, "we may leave the arrowhead where it is, and the Prince can go on as he is and have... a few hours, perhaps even a few days, with those whom he loves. We can make him comfortable and he can-"_

 _"_ _Out of the question," Thranduil said darkly. He looked down at Legolas' face and found that his son's blue eyes have gone from despairing to unfocused, and he wondered how much of the conversation his ailing son really, truly grasped._

 _"_ _My King," Maenor implored, "he can have days, and not have to suffer. Why subject him to the horrors of a surgery when it is likely to take his life both sooner, and so much more cruelly?"_

 _"_ _Because he will survive it," Thranduil said, booking no argument, "As for this pain you speak of – he can weather it."_

 _Maenor was skeptical, but what else could he say to the King? He stood rooted to where he was, helpless to convince Thranduil that Legolas ought be let go kindly, but also compelled by his healer's heart to know what the patient himself thought. It was, after all, Legolas who was slated to suffer._

 _The Prince's eyes refocused and drifted from Thranduil's, which was burning and begging down at him._

Fight for me. Fight for me. Fight for me.

 _"_ _As the King commands," Legolas said wearily. He looked up at his father with a crooked smile, "I will just have to weather it."_

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Recoveries

 **Summary:** After Legolas' first life-threatening injury, Thranduil finds it hard to allow him back to the field. The only thing harder than releasing Legolas to his duties? Admitting a father's fears. In the meantime, the Prince is anxious to serve and increasingly angry, while the whole Kingdom walks on eggshells around the two feuding royals.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, favorited, discussed, recommended, and most importantly, reviewed the first chapter of "Recoveries." This is the second and final chapter of this story. There will be a third chapter that I hope you do stick around for too; the usual Afterword, which dissects the themes, inspiration and well, justifications lol, of the decisions I made in the fic, plus a bonus mini-fic called "Great Lengths." I hope you enjoy reading both chapters as much as I enjoyed writing them._

 _Thanks again to everyone and as usual, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! Without any further ado:_

* * *

2

* * *

Thranduil finds Legolas in his rooms, clad only in his boots and breeches. His chest is bare, with scars in full, carefree display. In this private space, the Prince is not worried about them at all, and is more concerned with the warrior's exercises he is carefully executing. That, and he is also very, _very_ much concerned with punishing his father further by ignoring his arrival.

Thranduil watches Legolas' seemingly effortless movements as he twists and turns with his beloved twin white knives. His motions are deceptively beautiful, very much like a dance, when in truth the seamless alternating between hard angles and graceful curves carries lethal force.

"Do you ever just sit down somewhere quietly and read a book?" Thranduil teases.

"I read plenty," Legolas replies distractedly, because he could never resist his father when he is like this – reaching out, the only way he knows how. But Legolas still pretends disengagement, in case Thranduil's lightheartedness is fleeting, as it all too often is. He continues with his exercises and barely spares Thranduil a glance. "My tutors always said I was a prodigious reader."

"An expert archer," Thranduil says in mock amazement, "A warrior, a boatman and a reader. Some would call that the perfect son."

"Some," Legolas says, "Clearly not all."

In reference to himself, Thranduil realizes. The statement stings, and Brenion had been right after all – that his son felt Thranduil found him inadequate.

Legolas ceases his workout, sensing as he almost always can, that his father is hurting. He lowers his knives on a table laden with miscellaneous weaponry, and he leans upon its edges before running his hands over his head and turning to his father fully. His scars are fading, but they are such a stark contrast against his pale skin that they all but glow at Thranduil with condemnation.

"How may I serve thee," Legolas says with a weary sigh, expecting some new critique or oblique mysterious offense he can sense but neither understand nor do anything to fully repair.

Thranduil takes the commentary, knows it is deserved. But he takes it in his own terms. He ignores the question and looks around Legolas' room.

"Why do you train here, and not with the others?" he asks.

"No one will spar with me," Legolas replies, used to his father steering the direction of their conversation in whatever way he liked, not really bothering to answer to anything or anyone.

"Really?"

"I like believing it is for fear of my skills," Legolas says with some tired, self-deprecating humor, "but alas, everyone just looks at me as if I might break."

"Well, you've given everyone a scare. You can hardly blame them."

" _You_ look at me as if I might break," Legolas points out.

"I've held you broken," Thranduil says, looking away. "It is... not an experience I care to repeat."

# # #

 _Maenor had spoken of a pain he can neither imagine nor describe. Thranduil would know it intimately, etched in his son's anguished features and consequently, forever branded into his father's heart and carved into his soul. It would be a part of him forever._

He will survive it. He can weather it.

 _They were just words, but Thranduil held fast to this singular conviction, like a thin bridge spanning the breadth of an endless chasm. On one side, the side they were leaving behind, there was injury and death. On the other side was victory and salvation. Between them was a deep, dark pit of pain and misery, and all he could do was hold on tight to his son, and hold on tight to the firm belief that would take them across–_

He will survive it. He can weather it.

 _They gave him a draught so mild it kept him awake, even in his weakened state. Legolas was nervous, and it was keeping him from finding oblivion. His eyes kept darting to and fro, attracted by the healers' sounds and movement._

 _Thranduil kept his son's unbound hand clasped in his right one, and stayed on Legolas' uninjured side as the healers prepared for the procedure. Maenor and his assistants readied their supplies, and stood at attention before the King and the Prince upon completion of their preparations._

 _"_ _They are starting now,_ ion-nin _," Thranduil told his son. "Just hold fast to me."_

 _Legolas swallowed thickly and nodded._

 _"_ _Stay completely still,_ hir-nin _," Maenor instructed blandly, in a neutral tone typical of his profession when focused on a task, "Let us do all the work."_

 _One of the healers turned Legolas slightly to his right side and kept him braced there. The position found father and son's heads so close together that Thranduil could feel Legolas' harsh, warm breaths on the crook of his neck._

 _Another healer held the archer's left arm and shoulder, while Maenor unwound the bandages that kept them immobilized against his injured rib. They were all gentle, but the jagged arrow wound inside him was so sensitive to movement that Legolas' eyes stung, and when he closed them tightly, tears leaked from the lids. Thranduil looked down at him worriedly. The healers had barely even begun._

 _Legolas' eyes snapped open and he gasped when the wound was finally free of the bindings, and his left arm was shifted away from his chest and side to give Maenor better access to his injury. Thranduil craned his neck for a look too, and found a deceptively small cut surrounded by a large, blooming bruise of mottled red and black._

 _The healers washed the area with clean cloths drenched in herb-infused, steaming hot water. Its sweet scent was soothing, but Legolas grunted and jerked minutely every time the fabric touched his wound. When Maenor was contented with its cleanliness, he opened his hand in the direction of an attendant, who promptly handed him a small, thin, gleaming blade. He held it tightly and murmured songs and prayers against it, before bringing it down upon the edges of the cut on Legolas' side._

 _Thranduil looked away and focused on his son, who was breathing hard and blinking aggressively. The King watched his face and could almost tell the progress of the surgery by the utterly defenseless expressions he found there._

 _A surgical blade slicing through skin was stinging but tolerable and familiar. Legolas set his jaws and pressed his lips together. He breathed harshly through his flaring nose. His brows furrowed in concentration. This was a pain he knew, and a pain he'd survived before. The same went, for when they pulled apart his skin to gain access to the damage within. But then the healer's fingers started prodding inside, and the sensation hit him like a sledgehammer. His eyes widened in shock and fear, and he gasped and jerked away involuntarily. He began to shake._

 _"_ _Hold him steady," Maenor ordered in that unflappable tone, unrelenting in his quest to get to the despised arrowhead still lodged in his Prince's body. Thranduil braced Legolas at his uninjured side, while three other healers held him down by the shoulders, at the hip and on his legs._

 _The healer went deeper, and from where he held Legolas close, Thranduil heard him grunt, and then whisper to Elbereth unintelligently. Thranduil started murmuring his own prayers. His son was becoming increasingly restless and disoriented. Legolas tossed his head from side to side, and he had closed his eyes tight against the pain inside him. Streaks of tears ran on the side of his face and stained the pillows beneath him._

 _Thranduil knew the moment the healer came upon the arrowhead against the bone, because Legolas' face twisted and he issued a guttural cry, and his body fought to arc and buck, except he was held down. He cried out again in pain and frustration, and when his blue eyes snapped back open, Thranduil saw a kind of madness in them, something deep and untouchable and consuming. It was pure, undisguised anguish and his son was drowning in it._

 _"_ _I've found the arrowhead," Maenor reported, "I will draw it out now. Prepare yourself, my lord. It will be rough going but we are almost finished."_

 _There were slim, gleaming pliers in his hands, and he thrust it deep into the wound and secured it about the offensive weapon._

 _Legolas cried out again, and then set his jaws and clenched his teeth against a barely-restrained scream. He huffed out air furiously, in and out it sawed and dragged out of him, in and out. His chest heaved, and pressed and retreated against Thranduil's own. They pressed so close together that Thranduil fancied he could feel the thundering beats of his son's heart. He held onto Legolas' hand tightly._

 _"_ _Almost finished,_ ion-nin _," he said fervently, "Almost finished."_

 _"_ Ada _," said the younger elf in a voice thin and small and fading. His grip on his father – both by hand and spirit - was loosening, and Thranduil sensed it immediately._

 _"_ _There's...there's something you must know," Legolas stammered, "Y-you d-don't have to... you don't have t-to remember me, do you understand? Just like, like_ nana- _"_

 _"_ _I will have none of this talk," Thranduil said fiercely, but there was no anger in him, only desperation. He shifted and brought his face imposingly into his son's eye line. The King's long, golden hair fell almost all around their heads like a curtain, and with just the two of them there, it was as if the rest of the world fell away._

 _Legolas' eyes were darting around blindly in pain and panic, but in that space, his gaze fell easily on his father._

 _"_ _Look at me," Thranduil said sternly, "Legolas, look at me."_

 _Fearful, desperate, almost sightless eyes drifted to Thranduil's, and anchored there against the worst of the storm._

 _Maenor tugged, and Legolas' body lurched and his face contorted in agony. He kept his jaws tight and his teeth clenched, and fought to keep his eyes on his father's. A low keening sound escaped from his lips, a long moan alternating with occasional grunts and gasps. This broken, stuttered, perversion of a song went on and on and on..._

 _Maenor tugged again. The arrowhead was lodged tight against the bone. Legolas could hardly stand anything more. He lost sight of his father then, when his eyes closed and he screamed through a mouth curled up in a deep grimace._

 _Maenor adjusted his grip, braced, and pulled again._

 _Legolas' eyes popped open at the white hot, blinding pain, but the arrow was out and the worst of the surgery had come to pass. He let out a strangled sob – one, just one – in exhausted relief._

 _"_ _It is out," Thranduil told Legolas shakily, backing away from his son's face, feeling shaky in his own relief. "It is done, Legolas. You've weathered it, just as we knew you would."_

 _But the archer was spent. Limb by limb he became boneless. His eyes drifted back to his father's and held his gaze for a long moment. His expressions softened. He did not look pained, he did not look desperate or mad or searching anymore. But the restful contentment there was far more terrifying._

 _"_ _Legolas," Thranduil said breathlessly, jerking at the now-limp hand he still held. "Legolas!"_

 _The Prince's eyes lost focus and rolled back, fluttering closed._

 _He was going away._

 _"_ _Maenor!" the King snapped at the healer, who was well-aware of how quickly his patient was deteriorating._

 _"_ _The shock is taking him,_ aran-nin _," he said to the King. His hands were working furiously to close the sluggishly bleeding wound on Legolas' side. He waved one of his attendants closer, and she came bearing a small cup of sweet-smelling, clear liquid -_ Miruvor. _One of the healers lifted up Legolas' head and she pressed the cup to his parted, purpling lips. Most of the cordial dribbled down his chin – a scandalous amount of the precious liquid to lose in most cases, but if the barest of a sip could make it into the Prince's body, Thranduil was prepared to lose more if not all the stocks of it in the known world._

 _The healer worked Legolas' throat gently and managed to get some of it down. They then lowered his head back onto the pallet, and wiped at his face with more of the wet,_ athelas _-infused cloths used earlier._

 _"_ _You must call on him," Maenor encouraged Thranduil urgently. "Let him hear your voice,_ aran-nin _."_

 _"_ Legolas _," Thranduil's said at once. His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, and he had no clear mind to say anything else. But it was a plea, clear and sure to anyone who heard it. The King had never begged for anything in his life, but Thranduil was begging now._

 _Thranduil shifted his hold from Legolas' hand to the sides of his head, right by the delicately-pointed ears. His fingers dug at skin and a fistful of soft, golden hair, insistently._

"Ion-nin _."_

 _Legolas' face, he noted, was finally unlined again, devoid of struggle but also of character. The ailing elf's eyes were closed and he made not a single sound of breath. It was a glaring contrast from his previous labors, when his eyes had darted around desperately and air sawed in and out of his heaving body._

 _Thranduil's right hand drifted from Legolas' hair to over his chest, and felt the thready whispers of a barely-beating heart._

 _"_ Ion-nin _," Thranduil repeated, and it was more a lonely, longing moan than a word or a name. He was staring hungrily at Legolas' face, and so had spotted a small tear from his own eyes falling on his son's cheek. It was quickly followed by another, and another._

 _Legolas' lightly parted lips suddenly took in a short, soft gasp of air. It was quickly followed by another, and another._

 _Thranduil trembled. He was on the very edges of weeping outright. He looked up at the healers in the room, and his personal guards standing at attention on its edges. They had all lowered their eyes from sight of the tears of the King._

# # #

"I've held you broken. It is not an experience I care to repeat."

"Nor I," Legolas says quietly. His gaze takes on an abstract, distant, _familiar_ look, and it makes Thranduil feel cold inside. It is too reminiscent of something too painful and held too recently...

"Why do you think I work so hard to be better?" Legolas asks in a stronger voice, "I will never be as good as you, _adar_ , but I have such gifts to share. I know it makes you angry when I keep asking but please - let me return to my work, and we can stop driving all the people around us mad."

Thranduil's lips turn up in a sliver of a smile, like the barest of brilliant silver lining a storm cloud. They have been doing that, haven't they? And the casualties caught between their little tug-of-war spans everyone from the fishermen and meal servers to the novice archers, his close counsel and the royal guard. He was the King and cared little. But his son - a sensitive soul whom everyone seemed to call by his name rather than by his titles – has a pulse on the sentiments of their Realm. How in all of Arda did he manage to raise an elf of such fellow-feeling?

"I will not break," Legolas adds, determinedly.

Thranduil had come here in a conciliatory mood but the bold proclamation makes him very angry very quickly. The smile Legolas had just courted fades swiftly, enveloped by a long-gathering storm.

"You play fast and loose with promises you cannot keep," Thranduil seethes. "I do not know if it comes from your conceit or worse, naiveté. Out there, everyone breaks in some fashion – by the skin, the bones, the mind, the spirit. That is the nature of the battles we fight. I held you," he searches for words but he is reduced to sputtering anger, "I held you - " His ineloquence is making him twice as angry, "I held you! You were shattered and you were scattered in pieces everywhere and I couldn't, couldn't hold you together-"

Thranduil cuts himself off abruptly. He is shaking, with fists clenched tight at his sides. He presses his lips together and takes a careful breath and exhales it. The storm's passed, the floodgates have been opened and now he stands empty. He's stood before many horrors of the Earth and only his child can diminish him to this. He feels so very small and weak and helpless and ordinary. Sometimes, as now, he looks at Legolas and feels his heart closing.

# # #

 _"_ _He is still in danger but I have cause to hope," the healer had said. "He is very strong, my King. He is very strong indeed. So strong he survived to await surgery. So strong he stayed awake for most of it. So strong he survived it. So very, very strong..."_

' _Strength' was, however, the last word on Thranduil's mind when he watched his son in deep, fevered sleep._

 _In the long days after the surgery that almost claimed his life, Legolas lay pale and unmoving, his heart staggering along and his barely-there breaths so subtle even the healers had to press their ears low over his mouth to hear and feel it._

 _The fever that raged on his bone-dry skin was the clearest indication he yet lived, and they battled it relentlessly, almost smothering Legolas with cool, moist cloths from his head to his feet, and forcing him to drink at regular intervals. The heat rose and fell and rose and fell and rose and fell. Through it all, Legolas did not wake and he did not move._

 _"_ _Talk to him," the healers urged Thranduil._

 _"_ _Call upon him."_

 _"_ _Say his name."_

 _"_ _Let him hear you."_

 _"_ _Let him know you are near..."_

 _He'd never been issued so many commands in all his life. Thranduil did as he was told, but was always scrambling for the words to say. Everything seemed inadequate, save for Legolas' name. Nothing else seemed capable of capturing Thranduil's fears, longings and despair._

 _Eventually the Captain Tauriel handed him a small, thin book - a banal romance that would never have been found in the royal libraries. He was surprised a soldier of her capability would own it at all, much less have it on her person. But Thranduil took it gratefully and read it aloud._

The unlikeliness of it alone ought to bring Legolas back from even the deepest of sleeps, _he thought in a kind of hysterical hope._

 _Thranduil suffered having to both read and say aloud the torturous writing again and again, and his seemingly oblivious son managed to live to listen to it all. He had no doubt the healers and soldiers around them had also been privy to his half-hearted rendering of literary mediocrity._

 _The melodramatic story and Thranduil's profound dislike of it served as a good distraction, for the specter of his son's death was like a hissing, malevolent spirit always just hovering over his shoulder. It was always so near, always so possible. He dared not find ease, dared not leave. He felt sure death would pounce if he let his guard down._

 _And so he sat with his still, silent son. He was there when Legolas' body was recovered enough to move – a small flutter of his closed eyes, a jerk of his head here, a spasm on his hand there. Nothing impressive, except these small movements heralded what would eventually become restless stirring as he thrashed against elaborate nightmares of pain and fear. He writhed and tossed in violent, vivid fever dreams._

 _There were more commands._

 _"_ _Make way," Thranduil would be told while being pushed aside by some later-forgotten faceless healer who tried to keep Legolas from thrashing too much to hurt himself._

 _"_ _Hold him down."_

 _"_ _Call upon him."_

 _"_ _Say his name."_

 _"_ _Let him hear you."_

 _"_ _Let him know you are near..."_

 _He'd never been issued so many commands in all his life. Thranduil did as he was told, endless day after endless night after endless day after endless night. Captain Tauriel's thrice-damned, gods-forsaken book was also a godsend._

 _And so he sat with his still, silent son. He was there when Legolas' body was recovered enough to spare breath outside of just keeping him alive – he healed enough that he could speak, if low, agonized whimpers counted for words. Nothing impressive, except these small sounds heralded what would eventually become incoherent ramblings and helpless cries._

 _Legolas called for reinforcements. He called for attacks. He barked out commands. He screamed for now-dead soldiers' names. He screamed for the name of someone who had survived in some random dangerous skirmish some other random time – Captain Tauriel, incidentally, who ran into the tent with knives drawn in the belief that it was being attacked. She was met by Thranduil's pointed glare at the unwelcome intrusion, and she made her exit after a worried glance at the delirious archer on the bed._

 _Thranduil did what he could to comfort Legolas. He held his son's hand, called his name, and when the thrashing and shaking grew worse in the throes of an unrelenting fever, he held him carefully but bodily and close. They've not been so near to each other in so long, but they were also in a sense so far. Legolas was lost in his miseries, and Thranduil could not help but think,_ This is not the son I know.

 _He let his weary mind drift farther._ This is not the son I want.

 _And farther still -_ This is not the son I have the strength to love.

 _Legolas called for reinforcements. He called for attacks. He barked out commands. Legolas called for the King. Legolas called for his_ adar _, and Thranduil knew what would soon follow._

 _It was a stormy night and though sheltered in the dryness afforded by the officer's tent, the air was wet and thick. Legolas' breaths came shorter again and his fever rose along with his plaintive cries. He called for the King. He called for_ ada _. Thranduil waited in knowing dread at who he would call for next._

 _Even in the relative shelter of their beloved forest, it was raging outside the officer's tent. Whipping winds, rustling leaves, shaking branches, lightning and thunder and relentless, unmerciful rain. The sounds accompanied Legolas' ramblings in a torturous chorus, and Thranduil was almost grateful for them – maybe they could drown out what Legolas was surely to say soon._

 _He called for his_ naneth.

 _The first time, Thranduil convinced himself he had heard nothing. Perhaps he had anticipated it so much that he thought he did but in actuality he did not. The second time was harder, because it was louder and clearer -_ Nana _. The third time was impossible to deny, because Legolas had also opened clouded, forlorn blue eyes to his and called_ her _again._

 _"_ Nana _..."_

 _"Your mother," Thranduil said in a choked voice, "she is gone. She is not here anymore. But I still am."_

 _Legolas blinked several times and fought to focus his eyes on his father's face. Remembrance and realization dawned on him, and Thranduil watched as grief crossed his son's unguarded features. Legolas hurt as if he'd just found out his mother had died, or perhaps he hurt because he'd reminded his father of it all._

 _"_ _I'm sorry," he whispered._

 _"_ _Just rest,_ ion-nin _."_

 _Thranduil was already mind-numbingly exhausted and his heart so very tired. He thought he was near the end of his rope, and he didn't expect to hurt harder. He was wrong._

 _He dutifully held and rocked his fevered, trembling son until the cries died down and the fever receded. Eternal night after eternal night. Thranduil almost wished he didn't care._

Love is so painful, and inconvenient.

# # #

"I held you. You were shattered and you were scattered in pieces everywhere and I couldn't, couldn't hold you together."

Legolas falls silent at his father's sputtering, angry confession. After a long moment he says, "But you did ada. You held me together. I heard your voice."

Thranduil shakes his head at Legolas and waves the effort at comfort away. He rubs tiredly at his eyes. "Another night like that will end me, do you understand?"

 _Close my heart and end me by my soul_...

"I'm sorry you had to endure it," Legolas says quietly. "There are many things I don't recall, and many things I know you will always remember. I am sorry for that. I cannot imagine the pain I caused you. I've been unthinking and selfish-"

Thranduil rolls back his eyes. "I hear a 'but' dragging its legs at the very end of these impossible platitudes, Legolas. Must you always be so polite?"

"But," Legolas says earnestly, "but I cannot stay here like this forever. We both have duties to this Realm. I learned that from you, and I try to live it every day. I know I am good enough to return to the field, _adar_ – or to restricted duty if it please you, that I may not endanger anyone by my inadequacy. But I do implore you to at least put me in the path to returning. Please. Send me out, put me to good use. Yes you are right and I might break. But did you not also say - I will survive it? And as for pain, I can weather it."

Thranduil closes his eyes in guilt. It is a familiar feeling, though distant too because he's not had the luxury to indulge in it for so long.

"You are not inadequate, Legolas," he says tightly. "Far from it. It is... it is I, who've been remiss in my duties."

 _And I who've been afraid of pain_.

Thranduil does not know how to elaborate more. He does not know how to say that he's been unable to judge Legolas's recovery objectively and from the eyes of a King, because his father's heart was still hurting so much that it was clouding his judgment. The recent horrors of Legolas' near-fatal injuries were blinding him. He does not know how to say, _You're ready but I'm not_.

Legolas understands him anyway. He looks crestfallen by the idea that perhaps he would be idle for a little while longer, but he sighs in resignation.

"I am," he says wearily, "as always, at _aran-nin_ 's disposal."

They fall into an uneasy silence, and Thranduil knows it is different from the one Legolas has been punishing him with lately. It is merely acceptance. He also knew this discussion will come up again, sooner or later. A soldier of Legolas' caliber could not be kept away from the field too long, after all, and a King of Thranduil's quality would not allow it either.

Thranduil narrows his eyes in thought, and his eyes drift to the table of weapons. A fine heirloom sword sits there, something he too had held in his youth. He picks it up by the hilt, and it immediately feels like home.

"No one will spar with you, you say?"

Legolas' eyes gleam minutely in a kind of hopeful delight and mild mischief. He looks painfully earnest, but cautiously enthusiastic in fear of disappointment.

"The King would not mind helping a lowly soldier improve?"

Thranduil lowers his weapon and shrugs off his formal robes and lets it fall to the floor. A lighter tunic follows, leaving the King in his undershirts and boots and breeches. It surprises neither of them when an attentive servant hurries forward to retrieve the discarded clothes from the floor. It is also no surprise when guards, even those not assigned directly to the King and Prince's person, huddle for a view at the doors. Harried, running footsteps also indicate someone has made it his business to call in even more watchers.

The anteroom they are in is large, but quick-thinking servants move elaborate furniture away to make more space and prevent damage. The two royals, looking very much alike, begin to walk around each other.

"You won't hold back, will you?" Legolas asks his father.

"You do not have to ask me that," Thranduil points out. "How about you?"

"First blood will be mine," Legolas promises, almost gleefully.

"We'll see about that."

"If I draw it you will release me to my duties," Legolas bargains boldly, and Thranduil _tsks_ at how quickly the discussion he's been dreading returns to them.

Nevertheless, he accepts the terms. "If you succeed it only means you deserve it. On your guard, now, _elfling_."

Legolas barks out a laugh, knowing it had been meant as a slight. "Perhaps you should stretch first, _aran-nin_."

Instead, Thranduil lunges. Nothing with serious intent, just enough to test the waters. Legolas dodges easily. When his knives meet Thranduil's sword to deflect it, the blades of their weapons slide and sing, almost as if they were just greeting each other. It is the softest of hits they would make.

When Brenion arrives after hearing word of the father and son sparring, they've already fought their way out of Legolas' rooms and into the halls. The war minister had to elbow and muscle his way forward to catch a view; the two royals' trailing audience had no notice for his high rank in their fascination of the rare display.

"Thranduil!" he yells out, "what madness is this? I told you to speak to the boy, not maim him!"

"Maim!" Legolas exclaims as he delivers a blow that Thranduil intercepts only when it is inches from his face. "No one will be maiming me!"

Thranduil pushes away with a hard grunt. Legolas is lighter of build and yields, but uses the momentum to twist around. He catches the King at the base of his neck, by the hilt of his knife. Thranduil stumbles forward but recovers quickly.

"Yes!" Brenion hollers, forgetting his message in his enthusiasm for a good match. Bets are being made left and right amongst the cheering spectators.

Father and son exchange hearty blows and elegant dodges. Thranduil has greater patience and power, but Legolas has creativity and the dexterity of youth. They match strengths and weaknesses perfectly. As promised, Thranduil holds nothing back, and neither does his son. As the match goes on, however, Legolas does tire and deploys the one trick to bring it all to a quick end.

With faux subtlety, he presses a hand to his injured side. Thranduil catches the move at once, and pulls back right away, fearing his son has taxed himself too much and is now hurting. Legolas anticipates the move and thrusts forward at the distracted King. In a heartbeat, there is a knife a hair away from Thranduil's throat, and another hovering against his side.

Thranduil is surprised and momentarily confused. But when Legolas' lips turn up in a grin, he finally realizes he's been had.

"You are a scoundrel," Thranduil comments flatly. But his eyes are laughing and his son knows it.

"I'm _your_ scoundrel," Legolas jokes, but his eyes are afire with unspoken promises – _I am your son. I am your servant. I am yours to command. I will fight for you. I will try my best to survive for you._

The elves around them are quiet, as they await the ultimate outcome of the duel.

"Well?" Thradnuil asks sardonically, "Will you not take your prize, Legolas? Don't tell me you've lost your nerve, so soon after you've already sold your impure soul."

Legolas lowers the knife from his father's neck and nicks the King's skin at a thick part of his broad chest, just beneath the neckline of his undershirt. It would be something no one would ever see, and he had so much control of the weapon that it barely even drew a pinprick of blood.

Thranduil appreciates Legolas' ever-present mindfulness and the cut is both discreet and painless, but the King is still vain enough to mind.

Legolas steps away and looks at his father with mixed emotions. He is nervous and exhilarated - proud of his victory and his skills, pleased to have proven his point and won his wager, but also wary of courting his father's formidable ire.

"A battle won fairly and decisively," Thranduil declares to their spellbound audience. Wryly, he adds, "If not necessarily nobly."

Everyone laughs, and Legolas most warmly of all. His eyes crinkle in delight as he watches his father hold court, as regal in defeat as he is in victory.

"Now can somebody please find my savage son a tunic," he commands to more guffaws, "and we can all have some wine in the hall?"

The merry group cheers and disperses, while Legolas walks to his suites beside his father. He is winded, and when he rubs at his healing leg he is no longer fooling anyone.

"You were right," he admits to his father, "I am not fully healed. I am sorry for being so stubborn. I wouldn't want to endanger anyone."

"You were right as well," Thranduil tells him, "You are healed enough. Perhaps... perhaps we can find a way between. If you give me a week, _ion-nin_ , one week of true rest, then I will keep to our bargain."

Legolas beams at him. "Perhaps you can suggest a book for one to read quietly after all."

THE END

March 4, 2018

* * *

 _Thank you for reading and I sincerely hope you drop me a line to tell me what you think. If you have no inclination, that's quite all right too - I just hope you had as much fun reading_ Recoveries _as I did in writing it. For those who are interested, **a third chapter will be uploaded as an Afterword, with the following contents** :_

 **AFTERWORD**

 **I. On Thranduil**

A. A Product of His History

B. His Philosophy: Build a Wall and Survive

C. Children are Weakness, and Weakness Hurts

 **II. On Legolas**

A. His Father's Foil

B. A Few Character Highlights

1\. Rowing

2\. His Injuries

3\. Legolas Keeps Being Called by His Name

4\. Legolas Punishes his Father with Silence

5\. Legolas Proves How Good He Is

6\. Legolas Knows He is Loved

 **III. On Tauriel**

 **IV. On Mirkwood**

 **V. Thank You's**

 **VI. Bonus Mini-Fic: "Great Lengths"**

Title: _Great Lengths_

 _Summary: Legolas returns from the dangerous Southern outpost missing something he knows his father will be very sorry to lose - long strands of his golden hair_


	3. Afterword and Bonus Fic: Great Lengths

_hello!_

 _If you had meant to read the ending of_ "Recoveries" _and thought it was this one, then just return to Chapter 2, which is the conclusion. **This chapter features my story notes in case it is of interest to the reader, along with a bonus mini-fic** (still a bit of a beast though, at almost 4,000 words). Thanks and I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

AFTERWORD – The Method of the Madness

* * *

 **Table of Contents**

 **I. On Thranduil**

A. A Product of His History

B. His Philosophy: Build a Wall and Survive

C. Children are Weakness, and Weakness Hurts

 **II. On Legolas**

A. His Father's Foil

B. A Few Character Highlights

1\. Rowing

2\. His Injuries

3\. Legolas Keeps Being Called by His Name

4\. Legolas Punishes his Father with Silence

5\. Legolas Proves How Good He Is

6\. Legolas Knows He is Loved

 **III. On Tauriel**

 **IV. On Mirkwood**

 **V. Thank You's**

 **VI. Bonus Mini-Fic: Great Lengths**

* * *

 **On Thranduil**

 **A. A Product of His History**

The running theme for his characterization is how his difficult life has shaped him into someone hard and unyielding, and the recurring image for this in _Recoveries_ is stonework. In Chapter 1: " _The hard years have chiseled it off, like a master carver forms a stone_ "; and in Chapter 2: " _carved into his soul. It would be a part of him forever_."

Thranduil as he is portrayed in the films is just so unmovable, so I liked using "hard" language that evoked slow stonework as if to say, this is how he became this way - from having been carved and chiseled over the years. I feel like he is a product of his history - lost his father, lost his wife, having to be the final pillar holding up a diminishing kingdom. It can be difficult to love or have attachments.

I remember watching a documentary on prison guards and their difficulties at home. They spent most of their day in absolute power yet there was also a dissonance because they were outnumbered in prison and always had to be on the defense and always needed to pretend to be both strong and fearless. It was not easy for them to shut all that off and mentally come home to their families. Many would end up having a hard time tolerating defiance and disorder - which is a strain in marriages and especially in dealing with children.

I imagine this as it applies to Thranduil - it is hard to mentally come home and to shift gears between being a hardened ruler and being a father, and I hope that kind of struggle is portrayed fairly here, that he is doing his best but there are just things "not in his repertoire" because they've been taken from him by his history.

Another thing I kept returning to with this character is that he has difficulties in speaking about certain things – like making apologies, making small talk, handling tough interpersonal topics, etc. - and I used that as a symbol for his inability to connect.

Thranduil in the films is clearly eloquent of course, but when I was watching that last exchange between him and Legolas in _BOTFA_ , it struck me how limited he was also. He was walking around almost as if he was looking for a corpse. When he sets his eyes on his son, they are searching and gentle – but he still finds no words beyond giving his unhappy son a set of instructions. Legolas is almost away before he finds it in himself to say anything kinder, and it's as if it took a lot out of him to tell Legolas about his mother - even then it was stilted and sparing.

 **B. His Philosophy: Build a Wall and Survive**

In the movie _Love Actually_ , a man explains his distance from and almost-rudeness to his best friend's fiancé (with whom he is also in love) by saying it's "self-preservation." It reminded me of Thranduil because I think he keeps his distance so as not to get hurt.

We know from _The Hobbit_ films that he is a firm believer that real love hurts; so I think it is within character for him to distance himself from it first by never speaking of or memorializing his late wife; and second by keeping his son always at an arm's length away.

This worldview is clear also in how he maintains his kingdom – build a stronghold against threats and from within these walls, survive and endure. It's how he has physically survived, so I think it is also not a stretch to believe it's how he emotionally survives.

 **C. Children are Weakness, and Weakness Hurts**

So if I depict him as (1) having been made hard by his life history; and (2) surviving by shying away from things that may hurt him, including and possibly even _especially_ love – then I felt raising a child can present a really extraordinary hardship for someone of that background.

I read somewhere that having a kid is like wearing your heart outside your body – you have so much love for them but there are so many things outside of your control. So basically you worry but have little that you can actually do about it. It creates vulnerability and weakness – and honestly, who enjoys vulnerability and weakness?

This really resonated with me after I had my firstborn. My writing and worldview has really changed since starting a family, and I think this is why the Thranduil-Legolas relationship has captivated me so much lately. I realized you can love someone so much and influence so little about their well-being, and that dissonance can just about drive you crazy, lol. I realized I can love someone so much that when they get hurt, I would sometimes wish I cared less so that their pain wouldn't break me.

I brought these perspectives out in a few spots in _Recoveries_ , but I must admit I was somewhat afraid 'to go there.' But the riskier move won out, and I do depict Thranduil as feeling exhausted and vulnerable because of his desperately ailing son:

" _He's stood before many horrors of the Earth and only his child can diminish him to this. He feels so very small and weak and helpless and ordinary. Sometimes, as now, he looks at Legolas and feels his heart closing_."

And:

" _This is not the son I know...He let his weary mind drift farther. This is not the son I want. And farther still - This is not the son I have the strength to love...Thranduil was mind-numbingly exhausted and his heart was so very tired. He held his fevered, trembling son on another eternal night and almost wished he didn't care. Love is so painful, and inconvenient_."

Note that in the flashback containing the latter quote, I intentionally did not use the terms "King" and "Prince" (unless I missed one somewhere lol). I wanted to reduce Thranduil and Legolas to the readers too, in a way, to make them not as formidable royals but only as father and son.

The shift was in the flashback before this one, particularly this line: " _The King had never begged for anything in his life, but Thranduil was begging now._ " I wanted to show that the King is not Thranduil, they are almost different entities and that they did not always align.

This is my favorite "medium is the message" thing again, and incidentally I also try to employ this technique when I portrayed the struggle and exhaustion of Thranduil's endless nights of looking after Legolas by recycling many phrases to connote the tiring cycle of caring for somebody ailing over and over and over again.

* * *

 **II. On Legolas**

 **A. His Father's Foil**

I've tried to dissect this character over and over on too many afterwords over the last decade, lol, so I wasn't sure I was ever going to be able to write anything fresh and insightful this time around. Having Thranduil and Legolas portrayed in _The Hobbit_ films though, felt like a whole new universe opened up in terms of characterization because not only did it let my imagination run wild in a whole new place and within a whole new society (Mirkwood), we also started seeing Legolas in a new light - as a son and a soldier, not just a friend and a "fellow" or one of the nine. Having a kind of foil (his father) showcases particular aspects of this character that I did not think to highlight before.

For example, when I depicted them as clashing in _Recoveries_ , I thought of that old term 'immovable object vs. irresistible force.' It's like a battle royale of the gods or a really good wrestling match lol. Thranduil is the immovable object – the formidable stone, set in his ways, does not suffer refusal, etc., while Legolas is the irresistible force – softer, less demanding but just as charismatic, a friend to many. They clash, but there is no clear winner.

 **B. A Few Character Highlights**

 **1\. Rowing** \- it really is a good exercise for archers! Well Google says so, anyway lol.

 **2\. His Injuries** – I love h/c fics because they really, really up the ante on what a character is made of, and I started _Recoveries_ with this as one of the major ideas – I've never written Legolas as out of control and mad with pain, just wailing and broken. I always pull back a bit, like I feel the need to give him some restraint and temperance, as if it were more masculine and admirable. I know that's not true in real life – everyone deals with pain the only way they know how, there's no shame in screaming and hurting, etc. But since this is a work of fiction, I just can't seem to get there and _Recoveries_ is still hampered by my hesitations, I think hahaha – he still holds back. I think that's just my own inescapable preferences, or maybe I was distracted by a different angle:

That h/c fics up the ante for both the sufferer (in this case, Legolas) _and_ those who care about him/her (this case, his father).

Most of the h/c fics in my body of work make a protagonist like Legolas shine by showing what he means to people like Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir and the Fellowship, for example. It's like, giving the reader social cues on how much he matters through the eyes of others.

Lately though, I like writing Legolas h/c because it forces someone as hardened as Thranduil into a kind of crisis; it forces him to question his set ways, his worldview, etc. It's really like an odd shift, and something I only realized lately too, but I think the protagonist in a story is actually the one who encounters crisis and change, and that has been shifting from Legolas to Thranduil for me, even if Legolas is still the main subject.

I have no new projects in the works, so I do wonder if the shift is permanent or lasting haha, but I'm guessing the muses will sort it all out without any further reflection from me :)

At any rate, for the eagle-eyed Orlando Bloom fans - guess the inspiration for his injury? His character Balian's father, Godfrey, suffered marrow in his blood from a broken rib bone after getting hit by an arrow in Ridley Scott's (divisive but to me rather exceptional) _Kingdom of Heaven_. I researched a bit and found the complication could be what's known as a fat embolism. Usually though it's from injuries to long bones like those in the leg, versus the rib as is shown in the movie. Anyway, for those who have not seen it, watch _Kingdom of Heaven – Director's Cut_. Not the middling theatrical release; the Director's Cut is an entirely different movie and credited as one of Ridley Scott's best by film buffs everywhere.

For those writing about arrow injuries in fanfiction, by the way, this is a useful reference I came upon: "Battle Wounds: Never Pull an Arrow Out of a Body" by Hugh T. Harrington at _Journal of the American Revolution_ , which in turn references the " _definitive work on American arrow wounds_ ," "Notes on Arrow Wounds" by Dr. Joseph Howland Bill, published in 1862 with the _American Journal of Medical Sciences_.

It is a fascinating read. For instance, I did not know that arrowheads would be attached to shafts by tendons and sinews, such that when they made contact with the insides of a body and got wet, the arrowhead loosens and can break off easily, leaving it inside to inflict more damage. Another amazing fact? A great archer at the time can do six shots in a minute, and that corollary to how many can be unleashed in such a short amount of time, the doctor actually rarely ever saw anyone with just a single arrow wound. Fascinating, brutal stuff.

Just as fascinating? "The Healing Arts of Middle Earth" available online, which details instances of healing in Tolkien's works. It features quoted events as case studies with analysis on techniques employed – herbs, cordials, spells, touch, heck, even tears!

 **3\. Legolas Keeps Being Called by His Name** \- Legolas keeps getting called only by his name by elves of lower status, and they keep correcting themselves in _Recoveries_ (I think I did this three or four times throughout the fic). I think Legolas' honorary titles are sexy, but I also kind of like the man-of-the-people idea, that his people kind of skip on the formality and know and love him by his own merits.

Naturally I can't go into all the individual relationships he has with these background characters, but I thought if they kept calling him by his name accidentally and correcting themselves when in front of the King, it gives a kind of window into the relationship that Legolas has with them even if we do not expressly see why.

In _The Hobbit_ films, for example, we hear Mirkwood elves calling him by his title - Tauriel does it, as does that guy calling him to return to his father. But I do remember when they are disarming the dwarves in DOS, someone off-screen had called him just by "Legolas." It's a small thing, but it still stuck with me and kind of gave me the idea.

 **4\. Legolas Punishes his Father with Silence** \- One of the things I ask myself in writing Thranduil and Legolas is - am I portraying the Prince as being too deferential? In _The Hobbit_ films, and I think I've mentioned this in a previous afterword, he's kind of like ada's sidekick, really. He's generally obedient. His defiance, when it comes, is is quiet and mounting - he questions why his father would kill an orc he had promised to free; defying his father's orders that no one leave or enter their kingdom; refusing to return without Tauriel; then culminating in open defense of Tauriel and even raising the stakes by telling his father he would have to kill him if he harmed her... kind of passive aggressive until he's not, lol. It's like he finds his voice slowly, but the stirrings of his discontent are already there. I wanted my fics to depict those stirrings, like a small light inside.

 **5\. Legolas Proves How Good He Is** \- (a) In the archery ranges. He shoots and turns away before they hit their mark because he already knew they would. I thought that's a small but cool detail, like a legendary Larry Bird moment ;) and (b) He pretends to be hurt to get the one up on his dad. I thought it was mischievous and sort-of rascally, but I always did find Legolas as a character to be very creative.

 **6\. Legolas Knows He is Loved** – " _I thank you for your love"_ he says in _Recoveries_ , and I was originally gonna go with him saying he loves his father, but this felt more appropriate. I think Legolas' love is more apparent, but Thranduil's you kind of have to dredge out. Legolas says what his father needs to hear instead - that he knows he is loved too.

Similarly, he tells his father " _You don't have to remember me, do you understand? Just like nana_." Here, I am referencing the scene in _The Hobbit_ films where Legolas tells Tauriel about where his mother died and how his father does not speak of it and how there's no memory. I think Legolas understands that Thranduil is that way because of his love, rather than being without love as Tauriel eventually accuses him. And so when Legolas thinks he's about to die in _Recoveries_ , he tells him it's okay if his father does the same to him – no words, no memory and ultimately, less pain.

Throughout the fic I tried to portray Legolas as kind of being very attuned to how his father feels, and he always adjusts. I have a kid now, lol, and he is so quick to pick up when I am even mildly displeased. He always makes sure it's not at him, hahaha, so that's kind of where this is coming from.

* * *

 **III. On Tauriel**

I am a big Legolas fan-girl, clearly lol, but I actually have a kind of fondness for Tauriel. Sure, there is a kind of awkwardness about the whole sort-of romance they have going but I was always of the belief that in that long life of his, Legolas must have had a romantic interest in someone ;)

 **She cameoed in _Recoveries_ first as a convenience for me** \- I needed a captain and wasn't in the mood to do an elf-name generator, hahaha... but when I decided the captain in this story would be her, suddenly the lines became longer and all but wrote themselves. It made me realize she felt right after all – I mean, what could make Legolas possibly relax in such a dire situation? It had to be if someone he knew well and trusted implicitly was in charge. Second, eventually I decided it just made sense that Tauriel would be in their lives at this point in time, having been long favored by Thranduil as she is described in the films. Finally, I wanted to kind of show instances of how Thranduil eventually picks up – as he claims in _The Hobbit_ films – that his son is fond of the Captain. In _Recoveries_ , Thranduil observes that Legolas listens to her and trusts her, and is also alarmed for her safety. These are small reasons as to how he would come to the conclusion that Legolas has a soft spot for her.

On a separate note, I noticed that in the films, Tauriel is depicted as idealistic, starry-eyed about stories and myths, she's receptive to Kili, and had a kind of shy hope when Thranduil told her he thought Legolas was fond of her. **She struck me as being kind of a hopeless romantic** , so the despised prosaic book Thranduil reads to his son while he is in agony in _Recoveries_ appears as a kind of hint of that. She's a bad-ass, but traces of that romantic streak are there.

 **Having books with them, by the way, is not rare for soldiers**. In the 1940s, "ASE's" - Armed Service Editions – were designed, mass-produced and sent overseas for soldiers' pockets. They helped relieve boredom and built up morale. Millions would be sent out over the course of WWII, handed out at transports, in hospitals, and even parachuted in remote outposts. The importance of sending books to our soldiers continue to this day, as exemplified by non-profit organizations like Operation Paperback and Books for Soldiers.

Anyway I hope Tauriel's portrayal wasn't found to be too jarring. I like the character and I especially adore Evangeline Lily who is super cute; I am already toying with the idea of involving Tauriel further in other works whether romantic or not – one day I might find the courage to write and post them ;)

* * *

 **IV. On Mirkwood**

Always a major character for me these days! _The Hobbit_ films have really opened up my imagination on this Kingdom. I wanted to portray it as a really sort of live, functioning place beyond warring and esoteric elf preoccupations, lol. There are financial ministers and trade deals (after all they really do trade with Laketown and Dor-winion and undoubtedly a host of other places), there are fishermen (I had to check references if LOTR elves are vegetarians lol, and Mirkwood after all has quite the bodies of water), some of them are awkward, curious and rowdy (they party and indulge in drink in the films)... I really just hope it's not too off-image.

On another note, those who've read my recent fic _Walking Wounded_ may recognize two original characters used there as well as in _Recoveries_ : Brenion the war minister and Maenor the head of the healing wards. I have a general idea that these fics are therefore part of the same universe, but no concrete vision of a timeline or anything more specific. I have a feeling my future Mirkwood fics (if any should arise) would be involving them, however, if only just so I wouldn't have to lose my mind trying to come up with new original characters :)

* * *

 **V. Thank You's**

Thank you to all who read, followed, favorited, discussed and especially to all who reviewed and sent in their thoughts about _Recoveries_. When I first posted it I thought it was done, lol, but reviews just give all sorts of additional inspiration and the fic I think is now 50 percent longer than it would have been without your kind and encouraging words. Much love to:

Cling0514, Guest, Guild of Scribes, Hawaiichick, NinielB, Raide-K, She-Elf23, The Enchanted Stream and Violet.

I always say this but it is no less true: in the world of fanfiction, the rewards are few and the positivity and sense of community shared by reviewers is really what propels writers forward. Thank you for your generosity of time and thoughts. Let me also thank you the best way I know how: with a bonus mini-fic :)

* * *

 **VI. Bonus Mini-Fic: Great Lengths**

 _Title: Great Lengths_

 _Summary: Legolas returns from the dangerous Southern outpost missing something he knows his father will be very sorry to lose - long strands of his golden hair_

At its longest point, the King's soft, smooth, white-gold hair is almost to his waist. I've never seen it tied or braided or bound in any way other than being adorned by a crown or circlet. It is well-kept and seldom ever shorn, save perhaps for ceremony. The last time had been when he'd cut off a fistful of strands in honor of _naneth_ when she passed. There's very little memorializing of her, but in the days following her death, _ada_ had given her that.

I remember because there is little else to remember of those days. I was young and my father raising a sword to the edges of his golden hair created an impression on me. He cut a bit of my hair too, and he tossed the strands into a small, burning flame. We stood there until it burnt out and the flames turned wood to embers and hair to ash and they all melded together, indistinguishable. When the flames died so did the light in _adar's_ eyes, and he was suddenly someone different.

His hair has remained the same since though, at least as far as I can tell. It's grown longer, quickly masking the strands he'd cut out for mother. He always wears it loose and free, even in the heat of a battle. I don't know how it looks to our enemies but to me, he seems extraordinarily formidable with it; the glorious strands were long because _not a single hair on his head_ was ever harmed. He wore them loose because he could, well, _let his hair down_ anywhere - unfettered, unafraid, and unthreatened. As if all the world was the King's own private hall.

I myself have minimal preoccupation with hair. Minimal that is, until I all but lost half of mine in a skirmish a few days past. Now I am on the road home from a long deployment, pondering my father's magnificent head with such obsession and wondering how he would feel about my own.

"Everyone tells me _aran-nin_ will have my head for what I've done with yours," Renior says from where he rides his horse beside mine.

He is a gruff, extraordinarily large Silvan, taller and broader than _adar_. It is said he is the largest elf in all of Mirkwood, but no one is quite sure because he isn't in the stronghold frequently enough for anyone to make any real comparison. Renior is one of those soldiers whose life had somehow perpetually been on the road. The perilous Southern Border has been home for him for the Valar knows how long now, and he is wily enough to always evade being sent home. Soldiering is his life and he is without wife, child, or any other family or attachment in father's Halls. Renior is a bit of a wild one, the years having gnawed off all traces of courtly manners if they had ever been there. He is the kind of dangerous, Silvan horror his father's more snobbish peers feared would bed and wed their daughters, and the kind of elf that was the nightmare of people who were inclined to think of their kin in more wicked ways. He very much looked the part too, with his wild, red roan hair shorn close-cropped on both sides of his head, but massed at the top in long warrior's braids that went down to his gigantic arms.

 _My own initial encounters with the gruff soldier have been distinctly unpleasant. I was freshly deployed to the Southern Border, and he was just returned from a patrol. Renior was with a band of bedraggled soldiers, sharing a meal of roasted meat around a campfire. I was introduced by their Captain and greeted reservedly; they were exhausted and hungry, and cared little for the Prince assigned to their ranks. I felt no slight, for I've been deployed plenty of times elsewhere, to more or less the same cautious reception. I was confident that with time, they would see what I am able to offer and accept me as one of their own, just as the others had. I am always proud of the fact that I've never left a post where I was not missed. I cut my teeth in previous positions, which is exactly how I had earned_ adar's _grudging permission to spend time in the Realm's most dangerous outpost._

 _Renior, however, not only refused to greet me, he did not even bother to raise his head in acknowledgement. And when one of the soldiers had politely offered me a share of the meal – he was an elf as small and slight as Renior was big and tall – Renior said, "A Sindarin Prince could hardly be bothered to share a meal with us lowly folk, Telion. Not that there was any to spare, for one has not yet done his part here."_

 _I've never expected special treatment for my lineage and rank, but overt hostility was something else entirely. I was caught off-guard and had no words to say. The Royal Guard behind me draw their swords, and I wave them down._

 _"I must apologize for my companion,_ hir-nin _," the litthe, almost feminine Telion said. "Too long in the trenches and he starts to behave like an yrch. Smells like one too."_

 _The fellows around them laughed, and Renior just growled and shook his head at the lot of them and went about his meal. We dodged bloodshed then, but it wouldn't be the last time he would openly challenge me. He, for instance, refused to do patrols with me._

 _"His Royal Guard and shining armor are as good as carrying a bright red target on my back," Renior drawled out._

 _Oh, he had a particular hatred for that scale armor. "How is this infernal thing so thrice-damned clean? Are you new, or do these two guards follow you around and do the spit-shining for you?"_

 _I tried to take the high road. I've handled difficult soldiers before, elves who did not know I was worth having around for my own merits, rather than just because of my status as their Prince. It's just a matter of time, I kept telling myself. But even after months on the assignment and distinguishing myself both as a skilled warrior, a cooperative teammate and a competent patrol leader, he was difficult to please and seemed to relish testing my restraint._

 _The first time I saved his life, he actually refused to acknowledge it until he had saved me in return, saying only - "Now we're even."_

 _The second time I saved his life, I defied a direct order to retrieve him. He got angry at me and told me I had no right to. He threw punches once we were safe, and I was angry enough to return them. We both got punished, justifiably. For the first time in all my life I was assigned to latrine duty, my exclusion from which was the one distinct deference to my rank that I profoundly appreciated. At least my Royal Guard found relative amusement in it; they hovered around in their usual task of protecting me (from the gods knew what in this instance), with impassive faces unable to dim the light in their laughing eyes._

 _The punishment is how Renior and I were spared the disastrous patrol that would have most of those left in our outpost scrambling to a rescue mission a few hours later. He, myself and my two guards were the most skilled and experienced warriors there. I outranked him as a royal but he outranked me militarily with much longer years of service and deeper knowledge of the terrain. I knew when to defer to his expertise, but for some reason he hesitated. He had a_ mirian _on him for whatever reason, that we flipped to see who would lead the job. It still ended up being him. He took command reluctantly._

 _One of my two personal guards was left at the outpost to ensure there was someone experienced holding down the fort. The two elves personally selected by adar to be tail me almost used the_ mirian _too, to settle an argument with Renior and myself – they wanted me left behind at the outpost, but were hesitant to leave me alone with the possibility of an attack while all the best soldiers were away. They agreed that I should stay back with one of them, but Renior and I absolutely refused to have the outgoing rescue party any more short-handed than it already was. Eventually, Renior, myself, the more senior of my two guards set out with a number of other soldiers while one of the Royal Guard remained._

 _We do a fairly straightforward hunt and rescue, thankfully with no casualties and with injuries serious but not life-threatening, including mine. Renior had been issuing commands and assisting a hurting and disoriented Telion, with whom he inexplicably had a special bond. Renior was distracted, and I had limited options with how to react when the two elves came under serious threat. I threw myself against the bulk of that impossibly huge elf, shoving them out of the way and landing in a heap with them on the ground. I got a substantial arrow graze on the side of my head for the bother; my head, was the same height as where Renior's heart would have been._

 _I was on my back seeing stars. Orcish arrows were jagged, heavy and thick, and the graze not only hit me dully like a hammer as if I'd been pelted by a large rock, but had also taken out a chunk of flesh as it whizzed by. I felt a white-hot burning line from the top of my left eyebrow down the side of my head, past the back of my ear and to the base of my neck._

 _My personal guard and the elves around us dispatched the assailant and his ilk with ruthless efficiency after that, while Renior crawled to me and placed a piece of torn cloth against the long, bleeding gash. Head wounds were such a mess._

 _"You're all right, you're all right," he muttered under his breath, "I got you,_ hir-nin _. You're all right. Why do you always do this? The stories are true after all,_ ai Elbereth. _Must you be so reckless?"_

 _He was talking more to himself than to me. He looked so worried and strained that I felt compelled to let him know I was alive and likely to remain that way._

 _"You're like one of those mythical giant ogres," I told him dizzily, "The one in the stories, and there are three tasks one must accomplish before one may solicit a favor. I had to save your life three times before you are kind to me!"_

 _Renior had a feral, wildman's grin. "You're rambling like a drunkard." The grin faded, however, as he lifted the cloth to examine the wound beneath. "I can't see anything for all this blood and hair. You cannot go for very long bleeding like this."_

 _I lifted my hand to feel for myself but he swatted it away. I sighed resignedly at the impertinence. "Cuts to the head are seldom ever as bad as they look."_

 _"Well it looks pretty thrice-damned bad, my lord," he said, "though I must admit I do not see as much as I should. Hm..."_

 _I was dizzied and winded from the initial blow and my lifeblood shed on the ground, but I could sense he was up to something._

 _"I will do something the healers would have to do anyway," he said grimly._

 _"Renior..."_

 _"Hair grows,_ hir-nin _."_

 _My eyes widened in realization and horror, but I was not of a mind quick enough to do anything but lie there as he grabbed a fistful of the hair around the bleeding gash and just, just took a knife to_ _it. Telion, who had crawled to us – he was injured himself – appeared in my line of vision. He was clutching a red-tipped orc-ish arrow in his hands that I quickly recognized as the one that had grazed me._

 _"There is no poison," he reported, "but I believe we must bring this along, to be certain." He quieted and watched Renior's task with an almost comical, pained wince._

 _I would see how much Renior had shorn off when the giant elf hands the first bloody fistful of strands to Telion, who receives them inexplicably reverently and thrusts them in his pockets._

 _"Why?" I found myself asking in bewilderment._

 _Telion paused to give it some thought. "I'm not sure."_

 _Renior cut off more, and Telion kept them all. Soon the larger elf shifted nearer to me for a shave closer to the skin. The field healer reached us just as he finished. He looked properly horrified too, though I wasn't sure if it was for the gash or for the sacrificed hair. I had a feeling I was already missing half of it by then._

 _The healer gave me rudimentary aid and a few loose, widely-spaced stitches that would hold for the road back to the outpost and until I get better treatment. Renior then hauled me to my feet and when the world turned and twisted, I doubled over in sickness but deftly managed to avoid his boots._

 _"It's true what they said too," he told me as he supported me by the arm – really embarrassingly easily, as if I weighed nothing - and rubbed my back with his free hand._

 _"What... do... they say?" I asked between dry heaves._

 _I could hear that feral grin on his voice again as he said, "You really do have excellent aim!"_

 _He half-carried me back to the outpost, and was there throughout my time in the healing ward. He was there when I fell into restorative asleep and there when I woke up. I was just feeling touched by his loyalty until I realized he was also partly there to witness my first encounter with a mirror._

 _A full third of my head - from the edges of the left side of my face to the back of my neck - was shaved, close-cropped to the scalp. The rest of my hair was aggressively parted to the right, kept in place by two strategically placed, slim warrior's braids that extended from my right temple to the back of my right ear, before letting the rest of my hair flow freely down my back. The style was almost distracting enough for me to forget about the long, puckered gash on my head and the fifteen stitches there, as well as the blooming purple bruise that surrounded it and crawled almost to my left eye._

 _Renior's handiwork was everywhere on it, and I looked at his own elaborately shaved and braided hair with a kind of stunned silence._

 _"I was asleep while you did this," I realized too._

 _"You were_ drugged _when I did this," he corrected me. His eyes had a manic nervousness, as if he was relishing in my surprise while his heart was warring for some kind of approval._

 _"It is... different," I told him, turning my head from side to side. I looked like a savage._

 _"It was either that," he said, "or you walk around with a jagged hairless patch on your pretty little head, princeling. I made a few repairs – perfectly sanctioned by your healers, by the by. Hair could be a carrier of dirt and grime and infection after all, and they wanted the area around the wound cleared."_

 _Legolas winced. "I suppose it would have to do."_

 _Renior grinned at him. "Now you really do look like a soldier in the Southern Border."_

I couldn't shed him from my side afterwards, which inextricably meant Telion was with us all the time too, just as he is now, on Renior's other side. The slight little elf, I later realized, is actually the Realm's stealthiest spy and most observant, clever scout. He is as subtle as Renior is strong and lumbering, but both soldiers' expertise fit their respective forms perfectly. They are alike only in that they are the best at what they do; otherwise they still make a strange, funny pair. I don't know what that makes of us as a trio.

"For centuries I distinguish myself on the battlefront," Renior rants, "And three decades I've not crossed the safety of _aran-nin's_ halls. Suddenly I am ordered home and it is not to a heroic return - I am instead, tasked with explaining how I have damaged the Elvenking's most cherished property."

I roll my eyes at him. "You are not ordered to the King's Halls to account for me, Renior. I am called home only because _someone_ saw it fit to alarm the King by sending him blood-soaked strands of the lost hair upon my head, and you cannot bear to be left behind."

"In my defense," Telion pipes in defensively, "I had asked you for orders on what to do with them–"

"I was drugged and concussed!"

"You said you had no imaginable use," Telion continues, "and in the meantime the messenger was assembling missives for the stronghold, so I sent it to our superiors there with explicit notes on your good health, for disposal as they saw fit. _They_ presented it to the King, not I. I wouldn't have presumed to be of the position, nor would I have had the nerve to address him directly."

"You coulda just thrown it," Renior says thoughtfully, "or at the very least washed it first."

Telion is aghast. "I was not going to just throw away the Prince's hair. It is the first time it has ever been cut, I'd imagine." They look at me expectantly.

"No it's not," I say, and find no heart to say the rest. It was cut for _nana_ , and not at all before or since. They catch my sadness and make an appropriate shift.

"Either way, the Elvenking can hardly blame you for Legolas' injuries in a skirmish," Telion says. "It is the Southern Border – everyone hurts at some point."

"And none of this explains why you are here," I point out, "You do not have to be. You could have spared yourself the grief of facing _aran-nin_ 's ire. You still can if you turn away now."

"No," Renior says resolutely, " _We_ are the Southern Border and _we_ are always accountable for what happens there, no matter what. Sometimes someone is dead or territory is lost. Other times, we have to explain to the King how he sent us a prince and we give him back a savage." He sighs. "I may be blamed for lessening your guard. I may also be justifiably blamed for the inattention that forced you to interfere and place yourself in harm's way on my behalf."

"It's true you may," I murmur. It's not at all true, but the road home is long still and I am neither averse to some entertainment, nor above a bit of pettiness. I will let him stew in his anxiety a little, as harmless revenge for how rough he'd been with me.

"On a lighter note," Renior laughs nervously, "I've already had the worst assignment in the land for the last century. How else could _aran-nin_ possibly punish me, eh?"

I give him a long, pitying look.

"No seriously," Renior says quickly, "How else _can_ he punish me?"

I can no longer resist the urge to laugh. Renior snarls at mr, knowing he's been had.

"Are you really so scared of the King?" I ask.

"Anyone would be wise to be scared of your father," Renior says.

"Yes I know," I clarify, "that is the norm rather than the exception. I just meant it is surprising coming from you. If you're so afraid of him, how were you able to be so rude to me?"

"I wasn't rude," Renior says, slightly confused.

"You were plenty rude," Telion confirms.

"I wasn't rude," Renior says, "I just didn't know you. I'm just that way to anyone."

My brows raise in surprise. It strikes me as odd that he had no motives beyond how he acted against me, but I guess one spends so much time in the battlefields and things become simpler. A person can really be simply as you see them.

"Seriously, Legolas," he implores, "What might I expect from the King?"

Speaking of people difficult to read and filled with motives...

"I honestly don't know," I say with a laugh.

None of us are laughing hours later, when we release our horses to the grooms and cross the slim walkway that leads us to the entrance to the interior of the King's Halls. I pat my hair down uneasily. From where we approach outside, it is bright and hard to see the darkness inside. But clear is the silhouette of the mighty Thranduil's stunning white-gold head, as the King himself awaits our arrival. His hair is fanned around him, and by its shining contours I can tell where his head, neck, shoulders and chest are. The rest of him becomes clearer and more defined as I move forward.

Step by step I move closer, and wonder if he will look upon the change in me and see weakness because someone had gotten close enough to cut me so intimately. I wonder if he will think of defeat. I wonder if he will think me lesser than him. Almost certainly I know he'd already thought of _naneth_ and her loss.

I stop before him, and puzzle over a thick parchment envelope he holds in his hands. I see the tips of golden threads sticking out from it in odd places and realize it's my hair, sent ahead by Telion and now in the King's clutches. He shoves it at an attendant standing a pace behind him, and he places palms on my shoulders while his eyes rake over my features hungrily.

"You look dangerous," he says finally, as if coming to a decision only he is privy to.

"Don't worry, _adar_ ," I say with a wince, expecting his displeasure. What did Renior tell me as a small measure of comfort? "Hair grows."

"It does," the King concedes. There is a glint in father's eyes though, when he says: "But this look of yours is certainly growing _on me_."

THE END (FOR NOW)

March 6, 2018

 **A Quick Note on the Symbolism of Hair:** It's common knowledge that hair is of great symbolism to many cultures and religions, and I won't go too deeply into that here. The inspiration for the fic is that I literally got a haircut yesterday, lol, but more profoundly, it got me reflecting on hair length and what it means to warrior cultures in particular.

The ones I drew inspiration from were (1) Native American practices, for example, where hair is kept long to be closer to nature, akin to blades of grass. Some would shear off hair in the event of a family loss, however, to symbolize time past and a new era after. (2) I also borrowed from the Bible's Samson and Delilah, where hair symbolized strength and its loss, a weakness.

On another note, I researched images online for how long Thranduil's hair actually is so that I can describe it. I came upon a video on YouTube of Peter Jackson and team discussing some creative choices behind Thranduil's hairstyle, and found to my delight that their reasons as to why he keeps it long and loose aligns with my own theory that it just means he has a whole lot of control about a whole lot of things, anywhere he goes haha.

Finally, for those interested, **the inspiration for Legolas' bad-ass new hairstyle** is the History Channel show _Vikings_ , particularly the character Porunn (who is female, but has a very sexy, aggressive, androgynous style). Another peg would be Natalie Dormer as Cressida in _The Hunger Games_ series of films.

So this is probably already much longer than anyone bargained for, lol. At any rate, no new stuff in the near horizon for me as I finally have to refocus on my original work. All I can do at this point is to thank you again, and to wish you all the best in all your RL and fandom endeavors. Until the next post – whether it be in the next few hours or the next few years – thank you and see you next time! – Mirrordance


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